Diary of a Jetsetting Call Girl

by Tracy Quan

  “Upset! Why?”

  “We’re having communication problems.”

  “You are?” Now I had my mother’s attention, and Dodie’s too. They seemed to be peering at a medical specimen, trying to decide whether I was an important new mutation or a familiar variant.

  “Yes, actually. We—I prefer you don’t discuss this with him.” I was affecting a kind of adult stoicism. “We’ve been seeing a relationship counselor. We ARE going to make this work.”

  “Oh dear,” Dodie murmured.

  “We’re trying,” I said. “I don’t want to ruin your lunch with the details, but his call last night—do you mind if I ask what you talked about?”

  “Sometimes I think your generation is too self-involved,” Mother said. “It’s possible to overanalyze a relationship. But you’ve never asked me for my opinion about this, so I won’t offer it!”

  “Well, therapy was HIS idea, not mine.” I couldn’t keep up my act without getting testy as I would have done had any of this been true. “What was he calling about?”

  “To tell you that he found the inkjet cartridges. He said there was something wrong with your phone.”

  “That was it? You didn’t—discuss real estate, did you? The farmhouse?” “Goodness. No. It didn’t come up.”

  “We were demolishing a lovely spaghetti at L’Imprévu,” Dodie explained. “They do it with steamed palourdes. It wasn’t conducive to a chat.”

  When Ruth appeared in HER blue T-shirt, Dodie’s juicy bifteck wasn’t entirely “demolished,” but Mother was almost finished with a chicken breast. Ruth’s vegan scowl took in the carnage on their plates. Without missing a beat, Dodie asked, “Shall we get you a dessert menu?”

  Bribing her grown daughter with sweets? My mother would never do that, not even when I was small. Sugar was the alien substance permitted by other moms, who were to be viewed with pity and suspicion because—she once explained—they simply didn’t know any better. It never occurred to me that Mother, in her search for “adult companionship,” would consort with one of those moms. Okay, it never occurred to me that Mother would search for “adult” companionship, period. Is Dodie the floozy in this relationship? OMG. This is weird, you can’t go home again and I definitely want a drink!

  But if I start drinking in the afternoon, I’ve lost my professional bearings. I guess, when you have adult kids and you’re still in the mating game, you don’t make identical parenting techniques a precondition. I peeked at Mother from the corner of my eye to see how she was reacting to the sugar bribe.

  She was, of course, gazing at the twelfth century arches framing the side entrance to the basilica. If only I had inherited her knack for studying the architecture whenever something awful is happening! And speaking of inheritance, is Mother really buying a goat farm in Mortagne-au-Perche with this child-centered flake??

  Why do I resent the way Ruthie’s whims are being fussed over? Mother seems to tolerate from Dodie’s daughter what she would never tolerate from her own.

  I had to leave the table fast to avoid ordering a glass of wine. When I came to St-Max to see my favorite john, I knew I would have to be businesslike about my drinking habits—but I didn’t know my professionalism would be tested in this completely unthinkable manner. Ruth’s sweet tooth—a trait shared by former druggies and practicing vegans—gave excellent cover to my departure.

  “There’s a counter-conference taking place,” I heard her telling Mother as I left. “Did you know? We might have to take a different route up the hill. I think they’re planning a counter action.”

  “That won’t affect my assignment at all!” Mother said. “Action shots are what I do best.”

  When I got to the cibercafé, I headed for my favorite cubicle in a corner near the back. I was startled to find it occupied—by Tini. She was hunched over the keyboard manipulating a mouse, muttering rapidly in a language I didn’t recognize. I slid into the chair to her left and peeked across the low partition.

  Tini would have all the latest phone gear. She appeared to be talking to herself, but I could see a bright pink phone next to the mouse pad, and a slim black wire snaking across her bare collar bone, toward her shimmering hair. There was just enough cleavage in that sporty denim vest to suggest she was on the prowl.

  Scrolling through my emails, I listened with half an ear, trying to figure out what language Tini was cursing in. Certainly not French. Her voice was low but there was audible wrath—“… abogado … Isabel … bilangguan!” Spanish?

  I dashed off a quick, almost groveling, reply to my husband’s various messages:

  Honey, I’m sorry you had trouble locating the printer cartridges. I moved them to keep them away from the AC! Then stupidly forgot to tell you.

  Some new developments here regarding Mother and the hotel. I think it’s best you avoid calling Mother just now though, she has lots on her mind. My phone is working again! Have to run. I miss you terribly and I love you.

  But I deleted the last sentence, afraid to sound like a cheater who’s overcompensating. Instead, I wrote:

  Love you.

  Blameless and bland, but passion in a spouse is very suspect!

  Tini sighed with irritation. I couldn’t be sure what I was hearing, but some of it was too loud to ignore. “Dalawang libo…minsan.” Is she speaking Tagalog? “…dalawang beses? Anong oras? Kelan?” Could she be from the Philippines? Passing for Malaysian? After a few seconds of silence on her end, I heard a knowing laugh. “It’s not a fucking GIRLFRIEND EXPERIENCE.”

  There’s no trace of a Filipino accent when she switches to English. It’s a hybrid that reveals nothing.

  Wait. Did Tini just say “girlfriend experience”? That’s a dead giveaway. These website girls have their own strange words for things we’ve all done for years. As if they invented it yesterday and now have licensing rights.

  When I coughed, Tini just kept talking. I coughed again, and she swiveled around with a sharp look. Her expression changed to disbelief.

  Holding a finger to her lips, she ended her call, then said in a near-whisper, “I’ve been trying to get your phone number from Allison!”

  “You have?”

  “I don’t understand. In Barcelona, she was very reliable. But now I get to know her better, I don’t trust that girl’s judgement.”

  They were both in Barcelona? At the shadow conference? Allie’s a better actress than I imagined. I would never have known, during that three-on-one with Milt, that Allie and Tini were acquainted.

  So that’s why they were convening in their underwear, right under my nose. After Milt came … with Tini’s cock in his mouth … didn’t I overhear Allison telling Tini about “some stairs?” Those stairs in the church leading to Mary Magdalen’s skull. Allie’s reaction, when I asked if they exchanged phone numbers: it’s all starting to make sense.

  “We need to talk about Isabel!” Tini insisted.

  “Does Allie know what happened? To Isabel?”

  “Do you?” Tini’s right eyebrow was twitching. “Allison said—” Her eyes narrowed, I looked at the ceiling, as we both contemplated respective conversations with Allison.

  Allie has probably known about Izzy’s arrest ever since Tini arrived in St-Maximin—but she never thought to tell me. “Never mind,” I whispered. “We should go somewhere else and talk about this!” Tables were starting to fill up with potential eavesdroppers.

  “Okay,” she agreed. “But—look at this.”

  I closed my screen and got up to look at Tini’s monitor. The interior of Mary Magdalen’s cave—a large white cross, some church pews—dominating one corner of the screen, next to a balding priest in white robes. In large red letters: A La-Sainte-Baume les chiens et le chwingom sont interdits. Dogs and chewing gum forbidden on the mountain. Huh.

  “What’s all this?” I asked. “Are you involved with the procession?”

  “That business on the mountain? I’m keeping an eye on it. So far so good.” She fiddled with her mouse
. “But you have to see these pictures of Isabel. And Serge.”

  “I’ve seen the Daily Mail, you know.”

  “But Allison told me—.” Tini’s peevish squint, followed by flaring nostrils, made me realize she has less patience with Allie than I do. “Why did she—?”

  “Never mind that—what Allison told you. I called Isabel on Thursday because we had a date with Natalia. I never heard back.”

  “Natalia was called in for questioning! I haven’t seen her since.” A Swedish newspaper popped up on Tini’s screen. Only a few words made sense. Isabel Dolmy … Izzy Morgan … St-Tropez … Interpol. “I think they have her phone. We managed to get her service switched off, so they can’t monitor incoming calls. What kind of message did you leave?”

  “Oh God no.” Is my voicemail to Izzy now the permanent property of Interpol? “I don’t want to think about it.”

  “You don’t what?” Tini was frowning at the computer screen. She turned to me and spoke in a harsh whisper. “You’re in somebody else’s country. You can’t afford to stop thinking! One of the girls got deported already. What did you say on your message? If you called on Thursday, maybe they heard it. Isabel’s in a lot of trouble. Her bank accounts are frozen. They might take her flat.” Tini shook her head. “Look at this. She was gorgeous.”

  The first clear picture I’ve seen of Isabel—posing for the camera, hands cupping her chin. A beguiling smile danced around her lips. There was a directness about her eyes that made me wince. Her golden-brown hair was arranged in a luxurious but informal updo. “How old was she?”

  “Eighteen maybe? Izzy’s first husband took the picture. Malcolm ran an agency.”

  “But she told the Mail that Serge introduced her to the business!”

  “She can’t help herself. Malcolm died in a car crash on her twentieth birthday and she never got over him. It was Malcolm who taught her the business.” Tini touched the monitor with a manicured index finger, and gave the teenage Isabel a light tap on the nose. “Isabel tries to turn all her men into Malcolm because he ‘discovered’ her. You know her type.”

  If Izzy’s first husband had lived, she would have outgrown him. As a widow, she’s stuck.

  “How does she look now?” I asked.

  “Not bad.” Tini shrugged. She clicked until a picture of Izzy’s new husband appeared. “Did you see Var-Matin?”

  “Yes.” I looked away from the screen. “I never thought it was possible for Serge to look like that.”

  “I know,” Tini agreed. “They humiliate a man in public. It’s not right.”

  “But he informed on his wife!” I said.

  Tini looked around the room. Only a few tables were occupied, and those customers were ignoring us—for now. Her mouth was next to my ear. I felt her thick silky hair tickling my neck, noticed a light citrus aroma emanating from her skin. The combination surprised my body. A tingling sensation in my breasts made me sit still.

  “If it weren’t for that bitch Katya,” she hissed, “none of this would have happened. I hope she gets deported.” Tini closed her screen, and picked up her woven leather shopping bag. “Let’s pay. I know a place where we can talk.”

  On the Avenue du 15ème Corps, Tini’s cleavage was turning heads—male and female alike. Do you need to secretly possess a cock to have this kind of supernatural effect on the public? Tini takes this reflexive reverence for granted—she tossed her hair, adjusted her sunglasses, walked a little faster. “You met Katya,” she said. “Didn’t you do a session with her?”

  “I could tell she was involved with Serge,” I told her. “I was kind of shocked!” I didn’t want to admit that I was also turned on by what I saw. “I never realized he was married to Izzy. Then I saw the papers. But Serge and Katya look like a natural couple. Their body language …”

  “Those three!” Tini scowled as she reached into her bag for a cigarette. “Serge is an idiot. Isabel should never have encouraged him to do that with one of the girls. But Katya’s a little bitch. What she asked him to do was wrong. And what he did was stupid.”

  “What did he DO?” Besides ratting on his wife? She inhaled energetically, angrily. I turned away from the smoke.

  “They were spending weekends together, all three. Isabel thought she could control him this way. She left them alone in St-Tropez. Well, she didn’t count on Serge falling for Katya, only Katya falling for him! This last month was hell. Always bickering. Never work for a married couple!”

  Tini guided us into a side street, toward a deserted café with metal tables on the sidewalk.

  “Let’s sit out here,” I suggested. She showed no sign of being finished with her cigarette. “Fresh air.”

  “Nobody comes here,” she assured me. “I don’t know how they stay in business. At least we can talk.”

  “So the place in St-Tropez?” I asked. “The papers say Serge was running a brothel.”

  “She rents a flat in St-Trop five months a year,” Tini explained. “Serge took care of it while Isabel stayed at their place in Villeneuve Loubet, and Katya got these ideas. She wanted Serge to leave Isabel. It’s one thing you want the man to leave his wife for you. But Katya wanted him to take from Isabel what was never his and share it with HER.”

  “Take what? The apartment? The car?”

  “Everything! The business mostly. The Lexus probably. The apartment—well, I overheard him tell Katya that the property is in his wife’s name. When Katya’s fantasies don’t come true, she decides to make trouble for Isabel. It’s just a mess.”

  Why is Tini telling me all this? She was so cool toward me the first time we met.

  “If Katya weren’t such a selfish bitch,” Tini said, “we would all be making money and Isabel would still be answering her phone. The place in St-Trop is closed now. We can never go back there.”

  “Where’s Katya?”

  “No idea. Out of work, nowhere to live, and her lover’s in prison!”

  “But she …”

  “… caused all this to happen! Even to herself. Katya’s the stupidest girl I ever worked with. Girls like that have eyes too big for their brains. But,” Tini said. “I don’t blame her for sleeping with Serge. Falling for him.”

  “No,” I admitted, recalling his perfectly formed biceps. “I guess not.”

  “He’s not my type, but he’s a gorgeous man.”

  “But Katya was working for his wife,” I pointed out.

  “Yes, but Isabel encouraged Serge. She wanted him to cultivate a relationship with someone new to the business. Katya’s the same age Isabel was …”

  “… when she met her first husband! Omigod.”

  “It’s what they call arrested development,” Tini said. “Izzy’s a menace to herself and everyone she knows!”

  I can’t believe the havoc her first husband’s death is creating more than two decades later.

  “So it’s not all Katya’s fault,” I said.

  Tini sipped her rosé while I stirred my lemonade.

  “Katya went too far!” she objected. “What if she calls you looking for business? How long can she live on the money she stole from the apartment? There’s nothing Katya won’t do. She might tell the police all about you. I’ve been telling Allison you need to be warned, but Allison pays no attention. All she wants to talk about is Mary Magdalen’s cave! And the relics.”

  Unwilling to defend or criticize Allie, I tried to reassure Tini. “I haven’t heard from Katya, thank God. I wonder who she’s been calling.”

  “Desperate girls are dangerous. This is what Allison doesn’t understand.” As Tini lit yet another one of her cigarettes, I tried not to inhale. If only Europeans and Asians were a bit more excited about living forever. It would be easier to breathe in this town.

  “There’s a lot Allison doesn’t understand,” Tini continued, “but I hope she’s right about that cave. The girl in the tourist office says the mayor of Plan d’Aups is coming Monday with the Archbishop of Toulon, for the grand opening of Mary Magd
alen’s cave! And we have one chance to get everything right. No dress rehearsal. Allison didn’t tell you? I’m surprised.”

  I’m not. “Do you mind if I—” Reaching into my tote bag, I switched on my phone which was tucked beneath a black TAKE BACK THE MAGDALEN T-shirt. Allie might understand how I ended up with some enemy swag, Tini would not. And though I’ve done nothing wrong here, I don’t want Tini to know about the T-shirt. It will only confuse things. “The lady who introduced me to Isabel. She’s rather elderly, you see, but she needs to be told. So we’ve been trying to break it to her gently.”

  “We?” Tini asked.

  “My best friend in New York. She’s supposed to call back.” I felt a twinge of dismay. Allie would be hurt to hear me put it that way, but I don’t trust her. And I can trust Jasmine to do, if not always say, the right thing.

  “What’s wrong?” Tini said. I listened—with growing horror—to the only message in my system.

  “I—I don’t know.” I forced myself to listen once more … to the last person I was expecting to hear from today.

  “I think we have something to discuss.” Elspeth, very icy, without even a hint of her usual rasp. I stopped breathing and tried to make sense of her message. “I wonder what my brother will do when he finds out.” I was stunned. “How long did you think you could play this game?”

  Has Elspeth been tailing me? How did she find out? And for how many days? What’s SHE involved in? A covert investigation? Involving Isabel’s connections in Palm Beach and New York? Involving Liane?? If so, it must be very covert. Omigod—it never occurred to me that my sister-in-law, the former prosecutor, could keep HER job a secret. Elspeth never said a thing about going back to work.

  “If Interpol has my number,” I said in a shaky voice. “Could they—?” I was too frightened to continue. Could they have traced, that quickly, my conversation with Jasmine?

  “Calm down,” Tini was saying. “Don’t panic. Who called you?”

  “I’m sorry.” I shook my head numbly. Where is Jasmine? Did something happen to Jasmine? Why hasn’t she called? “I can’t talk about it! Could you order a glass of wine for me?”